


Human Contact

by kaeorin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forced Orgasm, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Sometimes Bucky comes home from missions and needs to prove to himself that his hands can do more than just kill.





	Human Contact

**Author's Note:**

> The first line of this thing came to me a few days ago and I've spent a lot of time since then working on the story.
> 
> There's a hint of D/s in here, but that's not really what the story is about? It's more about the power in this situation--being able to exert control over something/someone. The "forced orgasm" tag may also be a little strong: the reader is a willing and eager participant in this, I promise.
> 
> Anyway, if I've fucked anything up, please let me know and I'll adjust the tags and warnings accordingly.

When you jolt awake, your room is pitch black, your wrists are pinned to the mattress, and there are teeth around your nipple. For a single, chilling moment, panic makes your heart leap into your throat, but before you can fill your lungs with enough breath to scream, moonlight glints off of a silvery arm. Relief floods through your body, and the silly giddiness makes you want to hide your face. You fight to free yourself, but only halfheartedly. 

“Fuck, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Your voice comes out too wild in the darkness, still too close to the edge of panic. It doesn’t help that he barely moves, or that he snarls something with his teeth still clamped knowingly around your nipple. You whimper, but it’s more to do with the ragged edge of fear than the knowing burn of desire. He must hear something telling in the sound, because he does finally pull away, and soothes the ache with the warm flat blade of his tongue.

“I’ve got you.” The words are clipped. Flat. You can tell that he intended to reassure you, to show you that you’re safe, but there’s very little warmth in his voice. You recognize the sound of this voice. This is how he sounds on his worst nights, when he comes home covered in someone else’s blood, or when he wakes up haunted by the past. You can’t stop your shiver, but you do stop fighting him. “Can I keep going?” His eyes seek yours in the darkness, and you can tell, maybe from the way he’s touching you, that there’s an earnestness in them. 

The cool night air touches your nipple, wet and erect from his ministrations. There’s still that small, shy part of you that wants to hide yourself from him, especially when he looks at you like that, but you swallow and nod anyway. He smirks in response. There’s something dark in the expression. He lowers his mouth to your other nipple, and circles it carefully with his tongue before tugging it into his mouth. His teeth are sharp. They keep you on edge even though you know he’d never knowingly hurt you. 

“Missed you.” His breath sears your chest, stokes a fire in your belly. You’re still a little hesitant, because you know how nights like tonight always go, but your body is responding. Your back arches closer to him before you can make the conscious decision to do so, and he rewards you with a careful nip to the underside of your breast. “Need to taste you. Need to feel you.”

His words make you feel like your blood is buzzing in your veins, but at the same time, you can feel your heart swelling with pride. He’s not usually so...verbal on nights like this. Usually, he says what he needs to say with his eyes, with his body. Is this a sign of healing?

He moves up to slant his mouth over yours, claiming you in a fierce display that steals your breath. This is more in line with what you’d come to expect from him. Every time he kisses you—hell, every time he does anything to you—he makes it feels like it’s the first time he’s ever done it. Tonight, he kisses you like he hasn’t seen you in a hundred years. In reality, it was only about five days. Despite the sleepiness that still weighs down your eyelids, you respond in kind. It was a long five days. You’d like to run your fingers through his hair, but he’s still got you pinned, hands locked around your wrists to keep them solidly against the mattress. You turn your head away from his onslaught and draw in a much-needed breath. He immediately lowers his mouth to your neck.

“Can’t I touch you?” Your voice sounds normal again, if a little small, a little shy. There’s just something about the way he’s hovering above you: it makes you feel so small. Gingerly, you move as though you’re trying to free yourself, but really you know better. His breath is hot when he growls a denial against your skin.

“Gonna touch _you_. Make you come around my fingers. You want that?” He’s nipping again, tugging just a little too hard on your flesh. When you whimper, it’s only partly because of his words. He sits up, shifts backwards so he’s straddling your upper thighs, and pulls your arms up above your head. He closes his metal fingers easily around both of your wrists, freeing up his other hand to slide it past the waistband of your sleep shorts. There’s a lot to be said for this position, you have to admit: there’s something incredibly freeing about the way he’s restricting your movement. It makes it easier to give in to him, not that you had any trouble with that to begin with.

Realistically, you knew that it wouldn’t take much to get him to release you. If you fought him—really fought him, by trying to twist your arms free, pressing your knees together, rocking away from him—there is no doubt in your mind that he’d relent. If he thought he was really hurting you, or hurting you in a way that you didn’t like, he’d throw himself off the building before he tried to force it on you.

It’s just...you know what’s coming. He gets in his head too much on solo missions. He gets wrapped up in what he’s doing, in what he’s done. When he gets you alone afterwards, it’s like he’s on his own personal mission to prove to himself that his hands can do more than murder. Easily, and without much ceremony, he works you into your first orgasm of the night, eyes fixed unblinking on your face even as you writhe beneath him. 

As you’re still catching your breath, you feel him stroke gentle fingers along your cheekbone. You smile faintly and turn to press your cheek into his hand. “You want me to count ‘em?” Sometimes he does. You haven’t quite figured out what purpose that serves: whether it’s more about him exerting some level of control over something (or someone) in his life or about providing a sense of calm and order in a chaotic world. He presses his fingers to your lips, but pulls them away before your tongue can dart out to tease him.

“I want you to feel ‘em.” The tenderness in his voice makes you want to smile, but also shiver. He sounds more in control than he usually is on nights like this. That means you’re probably in for a long night. He reaches up to trail his fingertips along the soft underside of your arm, through the crook in your elbow, down along the side of your breast and the curve of your waist. You squirm, ticklish, and manage a whimper, but he doesn’t increase the pressure of his touch. “You’re so pretty like this. Makes me feel like I could do anything to you.”

You draw in a breath and try not to think about the way your heart has started thudding in your chest. He rests his hand on your hip for a moment, but then moves it and splays his fingers out against your belly. You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about the things those hands have done. The things those hands could do to you if he were still the person he used to be. The weapon. “You can,” you say thickly. His hand is hot against you. You try not to squirm again. “You gonna be nice to me?” 

“I’m gonna be real nice to you, long as you behave yourself.” He squeezes his metal fingers like a reminder. “I need both hands. Don’t fucking move.”

“Yes, sir.” Your voice is hardly more than a whisper, but that’s enough. The moonlight catches in his features as he smirks and releases you so he can tug your shorts down. True to your word, you do keep your arms extended above your head, even though you’d really like to cover yourself. You do twitch one hand mischievously, but he’s...not looking at your hands anymore. Instead, he lets his hands rest at the tops of your thighs, framing your sex. There’s something meditative about his movement, about the way he presses his hands against you before moving to gently part your outer lips. Involuntarily, you press your knees together in a renewed bout of shyness. 

His hands freeze, and his eyes come back to your face. He studies you for a few moments, probably looking for a sign that you don’t want this, but when he finds only a sheepish wince, his face hardens. “I said don’t move.” 

Your tongue is too big in your mouth, too heavy. Rather than struggling for words, you offer only the barest hint of a nod as you hold his gaze. After too long, his expression softens again and he strokes a thumb along your inner thigh. It tickles, but you don’t dare to squirm. Perhaps as a reward, he moves down along your legs until his face is level with the apex of your thighs and then presses a kiss to your mound. 

But then he pulls back again, and goes back to parting you with his fingers. The moments stretch into hours, into eternities. Before him, you never would have imagined that you could be so desperate so soon after coming, but he’s got a way about him. His face, his mouth is right there. If you had the courage to arch your hips, you could probably press yourself right against him, but you don’t. He moves his hands again, and strokes his thumbs very near your clit. It’s just the barest hint of contact, a whisper against your heated flesh. You want to shudder. You don’t.

He traces patterns, abstract swirls and lines through your arousal, everywhere except where you most need to feel him. He teases you, a fingertip pressed just inside you, not deep enough to sate you. He knows what he’s doing, knows how to stoke your fire without offering any relief. When he brushes past your clit, your body shudders involuntarily and you force out a desperate apology.

Thankfully, he doesn’t stop. If anything, your reaction seems to have pleased him. He does it again. Again. He brings you to the edge with featherlight touches, and then keeps you poised there, dangling, aching. You feel like a single breath could knock you over. Maybe you’re begging, or maybe you’re just whimpering unintelligibly, but whatever you’re doing, he likes it. He brings his face close to you again and breathes against you, long and slow and so fucking warm, and you cry out in the night.

A breath. He got you off by _breathing_ on you. Already you’re imagining what he’ll be like to live with in the morning. He’ll be insufferable: smug and grinning and looking you like you’re something he wants to devour. But tonight, your face is burning and your heart is pounding, and you grit out a moan from deep inside.

Apparently, he doesn’t feel much like gloating tonight, because he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lets his hands slide down your legs to rest just above your knees and slowly, maddeningly slowly, he drags them apart. He keeps his eyes fixed on your cunt as he does and, god, if you felt exposed before... Only then does he let his gaze travel back up to your face. Dizzily, you wonder if he can see how fiercely you’re blushing. If he can, he doesn’t say anything about it.

The corner of his mouth curls up dangerously as he presses a single metal finger inside you. As wet as you are, and as desperate, it’s not nearly enough, but he moves it with as much intent as though it were his cock. You’re not quite embarrassed by the way your muscles clamp down around him. Making someone come with just your fingertips and a single breath, it’s impressive, but it leaves a bit to be desired in terms of intensity. Your body is already straining for something more. 

“Please—” You speak before you’ve decided to do it, and immediately cut yourself off. On nights like this, even full-on begging doesn’t do you much good. It’s like, after having been controlled by others for so long, he takes comfort in his own ability to reduce you to something base, something animal. When it’s all over, you don’t mind so much—after all, you spend most of your days making decisions and taking charge, so it’s somehow nice to feel like all the control is out of your hands. You have to admit, though, that in the moment, when he’s got you stretched thin and trembling, aching for something that he holds just out of reach, it’s frustrating. Sure enough, he pulls his hand away completely. You feel empty. You’ve never more in tune with your body than at times like this. It’s like you can feel your own heat, your own arousal. Every inch of your skin is begging for his touch, but he lets it slip away.

Your heartbeat slows in your chest, but the fire in your belly only grows. You want to say something. Hell, you’re already willing to beg, if that’s what he wants from you. The threat of tears stings your eyes. It’s hard to say exactly what you want from him. ‘Fucking anything’ springs to mind. His mouth, his fingers, his cock. Your legs twitch, an instantly-abandoned desire to try to press your knees together. 

He catches the movement. He has to. Even in the dark, he’s got that serum in his blood. He growls something, the sound rumbling through his chest, and then sinks his teeth into the side of your knee. Maybe it’s a reward, because as he does that, he slips two fingers inside you, twisting and thrusting in a way that steals your breath.

“I saw that,” he says. His voice is _dark_. “You’re trying so hard to behave, aren’t you?” He presses his fingers just a little deeper, curls them in a way that makes you cry out again. Recognizing the heavy silence—he expects a response—you nod with your eyes clenched shut. Maybe you should have known better. He pulls away from you again, just barely resting his fingertips against your entrance. “I need to hear it. Use your words.”

God. You want to hide your face. You want to move your hips to take him back inside your body. You want to ride his hand until you’re coming again, or else throw him onto his back on the mattress and ride his cock. But you keep your arms pressed into the pillows above your head and force yourself to draw in a steadying breath. It almost works. “I’m trying.” Your voice sounds so unlike yourself. It’s small, meek. His fingers dip back into your wetness, only to trace another fruitless circle around your clit.

“I know you are.” He lowers his head to lave your skin with a trail of open-mouthed kisses. “You’re so good to me. You know exactly what I need.” It’s a rough whisper, almost-but-not-quite drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

“Me?!” Even through the haze settling in around your mind, you find a way to be incredulous. You laugh, but there is a brittle edge to it. He hums in agreement.

“Yes, you. I need to feel you come around my fingers.” Somehow, he finds a way to speak even more quietly than before, but given how attuned you are right now to everything about him, it’s no struggle to make out his words. “I need to know that I made you feel that good. Will you give me that?”

A single sob wracks through you, escaping before you can swallow it back down. “God. _Please_.”

“Listen to those manners.” His voice is stronger again, and his lips split in a smirk. “How could I say no?”

He pushes his way back inside you, three thick fingers this time, and it’s like your whole body cries out with relief. He’s pumping hard, dragging his fingers along your g-spot each time, and you can’t stop your hips from arching off of the mattress. Instead of pissing him off, though, that only makes him work harder. The sounds coming from you are absolutely obscene. You’ve got to be dripping now, leaving a spreading pool of wetness on the sheets beneath you. It doesn’t matter. How could it? Dimly, you become aware of the fact that you’re speaking, whining, pleading with him even as he fucks you with his fingers. He responds, low rumbling sounds that are maybe reassurances, maybe promises, and holds his pace steady even as he clasps the bruising fingers of his other hand onto your hip to try to keep you still. Only a few moments later, you’re coming hard, muscles clamping down tightly around the fingers of the arm that the enemy intended him to use as a weapon.

When it’s over, you want to go limp. Your whole body feels wrung-out, used-up. But he barely gives you a minute to breathe before he’s closing his mouth around your oversensitive clit. It’s just this side of painful, the way he teases you with his lips and tongue, and you’re trembling beneath him, but he’s relentless. When your muscles finally release him, he pulls his fingers away from you, but continues to work you with his mouth. You want to cry out for real this time, ask him to leave you alone, but those same worn-out muscles grow tense again. Something tells you that he wouldn’t mind so much if you moved your hands to the top of his head, but you’re not willing to risk that much, and instead tangle your fingers in your own hair. 

Somehow he knows just what you need, how hard he can touch you before the pain gets to be too much. It doesn’t take long before you’re arching your hips again, this time grinding yourself against his face as he works you through still another climax. He curls his tongue around you, stoking your pleasure while also easing the sting of over-stimulation. And still he doesn’t let you relax. Instead, he hauls you up closer to his mouth and slips his fingers back inside you, clearly angling for another goddamn orgasm. You want to protest. You’re sore. You’re exhausted. You can’t get enough of this, but you’re not sure you can take any more. Words have escaped you. The only thing you can say is a ragged “I can’t,” repeated over and over again, though scarcely louder than a whisper. He chants his response back to you, moving his lips against you even as his fingers probe and claim: “One more. You can do it. Give me one more.”

And, God help you, you do.

Your body falls apart under his insistent ministrations, and you find yourself howling out your pleasure, and that delicious edge of pain. When it’s all over, this time—blessedly—he falls still, fingers buried deep inside you, mouth locked around you, until your body is finally back to normal. When he withdraws so he can move back up the length of your body, you shudder and wrap your arms around his neck. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips and it makes you groan again, low in your throat. He cups one breast in his hand, weighing it thoughtfully as he explores your mouth. 

He shifts, and his erection brushes against you. The fabric of his pants is abrasive, but not entirely unpleasant. You turn your head away to break the kiss. “Fuck me.” Your voice wavers, but you set your jaw with determination. Up close, it’s hard to miss the skeptical little smirk he gives you. He draws a breath like he wants to say something, but you grind yourself against him and he breathes out instead. He’s so hard. That’s impossible to miss, even through his clothing. Your mind conjures up an image of his cock, swollen and dripping, and you drag his lips back down to yours for a hungry kiss. “Please? You need to feel good too, and I’m so wet for you already...”

Another ragged exhale, like he’s thinking about giving in. “Weren’t you just begging me to stop?” he asks with a wry half-smile. “Don’t you want to get back to sleep?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Maybe your brain is still a little scrambled, but you’re present enough to understand your mission. You gather enough courage to reach between you and cup him through the fabric. He’s burning hot, and every bit as hard as you thought. “Please? I still need your cock, sir. Don’t you want to fuck me, after you spent all that time getting me soaking wet? I need to feel you filling me up.” Your breath comes a little heavier. You’re not entirely certain that your body actually has the strength to survive him fucking you, but you can’t take it back now. “I want to feel you come too. _Please_.” 

James Buchanan Barnes is the king of self-sacrifice, but he’s also a sucker for dirty talk. He sinks his teeth into your lower lip and growls under his breath at you, but then reaches between you to work the fly on his pants. It takes some work, but he manages to push them down past his hips all without dragging his mouth away from yours. When he does break the kiss and pull back, he presses one of your knees up near your chest. You’re completely open to him, and though you feel inescapably exposed, you make no move to cover yourself. He smiles faintly as he rubs the head of his cock against you. Just like the rest of him, it’s searing hot. You gasp, mostly to yourself.

“How do you want it? Should I fuck you hard, or soft?” Even if the words themselves weren’t so intimate, the sound of his voice would still make you blush. You fight the urge to close your eyes. 

“I want you to take what you need.” The words come out in a rush, in a single breath, but you’ve never spoken anything truer in your life.

“You’re so _fucking_ good, you know that?” His words are a harsh whisper as he lines himself up with your entrance and then buries himself inside you without preamble. You choke out a cry as he does—mostly surprise and pleasure at the sudden intrusion, though you are still sore from his fingers—and clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound. Almost immediately, his fingers are wrapped around your wrist again, prying your hand away and pinning it to the pillows again. “If anyone’s gonna hear you, they’ve already heard you,” he teases. “Let them listen.”

All you can do is nod. He smiles again, gratified, and laces his fingers with yours as he begins to move within you. It seems unthinkable now, that even three of his fingers could have been enough to get you off. You can feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, and it makes you crazy. He fucks into you fiercely, pounding with devastating accuracy. It’s hard to breathe. Just when you’re starting to get dizzy, he freezes, and you can feel him throbbing. Almost involuntarily, you tightly your muscles around him. His grip on your arm tightens nearly to the point of pain.

“Don’t fucking move,” he grits out, his voice a warning. He stays like that, frozen stiff except for his cock throbbing inside you, for what feels like forever. Finally, his fingers loosen and he pulls your wrist up to his lips. “I didn’t want to come yet.” It’s an apology, but wholly unnecessary. 

When he begins moving again, it’s less frenetic. He’s fucking you more slowly now, pushing his way all the way inside you and hesitating for a moment before pulling out again. You’re exhausted and aching, but there’s something about the heat and the weight of him inside you… Yet another orgasm begins to build, and it almost terrifies you. Will you survive another one? You start to protest, to ask him to be still again, but he leans down and brushes his lips across yours. 

“I’ve got you,” he mumbles. His hips are still moving, relentless in their rhythm. He doesn’t move to touch your clit, which suits you just fine. You always come the hardest with his cock inside you; you don’t need to touch yourself. His breathing isn’t quite ragged, but you can hear that telltale catch in his throat. He’s still close. “One more, dollface. Come on.”

The words are enough. You wanted to hold back so the two of you could come together, but those words, that coaxing tone, they’re more than enough to push you over the edge. This one isn’t explosive, and it doesn’t threaten to rip you apart. Instead, it grows slowly, radiating from your cunt until it wracks through your entire body. You can feel your muscles locking around him, but you can also feel him forcing his way through them, fucking you slowly and steadily and prolonging it all. Maybe you’re screaming, or maybe you’re just gasping for air, but his fingers lace tightly through yours and keep a tight hold on you. 

He groans something in your ear, and his breath is hot. Before you can make sense of what he’s said, you feel him throbbing again, and you understand. It’s hard to be sure, but you imagine that you can feel each thick spurt of seed as he fills you, and it’s more than enough to send little aftershocks of pleasure rippling through you. He chants in your ear even as he’s coming—swear words, affirmations, your name. It’s like a prayer. You sob again and lock your arms around his neck, and the two of you lie there, connected, still breathing heavily, even as the sky begins to lighten.


End file.
